


Soap/Skin

by crushcandles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Hair Washing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: Geralt comes back with blood in his hair.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 161





	Soap/Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a "grooming/hair kink" prompt from [raventaire](https://raventaire.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Geralt comes back with blood in his hair. It's not the only place there's blood, of course, but it's the first thing Jaskier sees as Geralt rides into camp. His hair, usually lovely and light, the leather tie lost somewhere in the fight with the wyvern, now greyish with sweat at the roots and matted with blood from the ears down. Jaskier can see the dirty marks on Geralt's neck from where his hair touched it. Or at least he hopes that's what those marks are from. 

Geralt halts Roach in the same place he mounted her this morning, but doesn't get off. He lifts a slow arm up to bat back the filthy hair covering his left ear. It looks like it's a struggle to do so. Jaskier takes in how perfectly straight Geralt's sitting in the saddle. He'd look formal if it wasn't for the pained pinch at the corners of his mouth. 

"Can you get me some water?" Geralt grunts, finally dropping the reins. 

"Of course," Jaskier says, and as soon as he turns to find their waterskin he hears the telltale sucked-in breath of someone dismounting a horse when they're hiding how hurt they are. He shakes his head to himself but takes his time getting the skin. He'll let Geralt have his pride. It doesn't cost Jaskier anything but a few extra moments of his time. 

He finally gets the waterskin from its place near the fire, exactly where he left it, and removes the cork under the guise of needing a drink himself. Geralt waits his turn, standing almost as stiffly as he sat in the saddle. When Jaskier gives him the skin he raises it to his mouth with a grimace, and as he drinks, Jaskier takes advantage of the lifted arm to touch his side. 

Even through the black shirt he favours, Geralt's flank is hot and moist. He hisses, sloshing water down his chin, and flinches away.

"Don't," he says sharply, slapping at Jaskier's hand. "It's fine. I don’t need help."

Jaskier removes his hand to a respectful distance. "What's _it_?"

"Nothing," Geralt says. "I put some salve on it." His mouth pinches again, with pain and some frustration. It must have been a stupidly gotten wound, if he doesn't want to share it so badly. “I’m too tired for your questions.”

“Fine,” Jaskier says. “You have to wash though. I’m not interested in having flakes of whoever’s,” he points at Geralt’s dark, crusty hair, “blood that is on everything.”

“Fine,” Geralt mutters, but at least he lets Jaskier take the waterskin from him without a fight.

*

Jaskier pretends not to watch Geralt as he walks into the pond. There’s the usual small thrill at seeing all of Geralt’s broad, hard body coming toward him from the corner of his eye, but the effect is marred by the spattering of acid burns on Geralt’s side. They’re reddish-purple and shiny-fresh; no wonder Geralt hardly dares to move. 

Geralt gets waist-deep in the water not far from Jaskier and stops. He first flinches as the cool water laps at the burns, but then relaxes once it doesn’t kill him. He makes no move to lift the cake of soap he has in his hand, only looks at it blankly.

Jaskier lifts a palmful of water over one of his own arms, then the other, waiting. He doesn’t need to wash; he made sure he was clean before Geralt came back to camp, but the water’s nice enough.

Finally, Geralt clears his throat. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier checks his nails. They’re smooth and clean, no dirt hiding underneath. “Hmm?”

“I can’t –” Geralt lifts the hand holding the soap up, although he does so with difficulty. “If you want the blood out of my hair, you’re going to have to wash it out yourself.”

Normally, Jaskier would take the time to tease him, maybe try and strike a bargain for the service, but Geralt looks so pitiful, fresh wound on his side, lank, filthy hair around his tired, pained face, that Jaskier doesn’t even try. 

“Give me that,” he says, freeing the soap from Geralt’s fingers.

*

It’s easiest with both of them kneeling in the pond’s shallows. Jaskier regrets not bringing a cup, but he can manage to scoop up enough water in his hands to wet Geralt’s hair so he can wash it. It turns out it’s not just blood in his hair, but some kind of mud that goes sticky once it’s wet. Jaskier has to work at it with his fingers, mindful of not pulling the hair trapped in in it. 

Geralt bears it without complaint, even when Jaskier does pull his hair. He doesn’t offer further details of the fight that got him in such a state, and Jaskier doesn’t ask. Geralt will tell the story when and if he wants to. 

When the worst of the mud and blood is loosened, dark rivulets running down Geralt’s neck and chest, Jaskier picks up the soap and works it into a lather between his palms. This is Geralt’s soap, inoffensive, no flowers for perfume, although Jaskier finds it unpleasantly oily. Geralt seems to prefer the emollience of it though, and Jaskier must admit that it does a good job removing the sweat and muck from Geralt’s hair.  
Now that he’s got Geralt here under his hands, he takes his time with it, rubbing his fingertips on Geralt’s scalp, the flats behind his ears, even the gritty line of his undercut. Geralt tips his chin down to his chest, first so Jaskier can work, and then, drooping in pleasure. 

Shuffling on his knees in the silt and sand, Jaskier comes around to Geralt’s front. He lathers his palms again and cups Geralt’s jaws with them. Geralt has a week’s worth of beard growth there. His last shave must have been the one Jaskier saw on the morning Geralt left to track the wyvern. The grain of his beard scrapes Jaskier’s hands through the slipperiness of the soap. 

There’s not much blood or mud in Geralt’s beard, not enough to warrant this level of attention, but it’s Jaskier’s attention to give and he does, tenderly soaping Geralt’s cheeks and jaws, petting with his thumbs because he can get away with it like this.

Geralt’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes dark, wet spikes. He sighs when Jaskier palms the sides of his neck, chasing away the marks there with soap. 

“My dear,” Jaskier murmurs, just because he’s happy to have Geralt back and mostly unharmed. 

Geralt twitches. Not in pain, but as if coming out of meditation. He opens his eyes halfway. His pupils are dilated. 

He clears his throat. “What?”

Jaskier palms the tops of Geralt’s pectorals, Geralt’s chest hair tickling his hands. He passes his soapy fingers over Geralt’s nipples. Geralt shifts into the touch, a soft sound in his throat.

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, touching Geralt’s nipples again, slicking them with soap. 

*

Geralt stays just as still as before, although Jaskier can feel the strain building in Geralt’s body as he soaps Geralt’s front. He stays well clear of the burns, but is thorough as he works over Geralt’s chest and belly. He even rubs little circles into the arrow of hair under Geralt’s navel, leaving behind soapy whorls. 

Despite any pain or chill from the water, Geralt’s cock is half-hard, rising out of the water and its nest of hair. Unable to resist, Jaskier rubs his soapy fingers over that hair too, enjoying the scrape over his knuckles, how Geralt’s cock hardens more when he tugs lightly on a few curls. 

Geralt’s covered in soap from crown to crotch, but the corner of his mouth is dry and sweet under Jaskier’s lips. 

“If I want something done with this,” he murmurs, thumbing the thickening base of Geralt’s cock, “am I going to have to do it myself?”

*

Rinsed off but still damp, Geralt’s skin tastes clean as Jaskier sucks his cock. His arse is soft and oiled around the finger Jaskier has in there to help him come quickly without needing to move too much. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans. He’s given up trying to stay still, but the arm Jaskier has across his belly keeps him on his back and his hips down on the bedroll. 

“Mmhmm.” Jaskier keeps sucking, twisting his finger.

“I can’t –” Geralt moans, digging his heel into the bedroll, already coming. He fills Jaskier’s mouth, one wet hand in Jaskier’s dry hair, making a mess of it.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
